Countrymen. No, no, we’ll find cudgel enough to strike her.
O. Banks. Ay; no lips to kiss but my cow’s—!
M. Saw. Rots and foul maladies eat up thee and thine! [Exeunt Old Banks and Countrymen.
Just. Here’s none now, Mother Sawyer, but this gentleman,
Myself, and you: let us to some mild questions;
Have you mild answers; tell us honestly
And with a free confession—we’ll do our best
To wean you from it—are you a witch, or no?
M. Saw. I am none.
Just. Be not so furious.
M. Saw. I am none.
None but base curs so bark at me; I’m none:
Or would I were! if every poor old woman
Be trod on thus by slaves, reviled, kicked, beaten,
As I am daily, she to be revenged
Had need turn witch.
Sir Arth. And you to be revenged
Have sold your soul to th’ devil.
M. Saw. Keep thine own from him.